


Febuwhump 2021 No. 8

by Sapless_Tree



Series: MacGyver Febuwhump [8]
Category: MacGyver (TV 2016)
Genre: Angus MacGyver (MacGyver TV 2016) Whump, Bleeding Out, Blood Loss, Febuwhump, Febuwhump 2021, Gen, Hurt Angus Macgyver (Macgyver 2016), Passing Out, Whump, gunshot wound, macgyver whump, mostly just Mac all by his lonesome tho
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-11 23:48:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29500869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sapless_Tree/pseuds/Sapless_Tree
Summary: Febuwhump 2021 No. 8Prompt: "hey, this is no time to sleep"Pressure. Keep pressure on the wounds, Mac’s subconscious belatedly reminded. Where were they again? In... him, but where? His body a floaty, numb thing, it was hard to pinpoint any one source of pain. Slow, unsteady hands seemed to know where to go, however, as he found himself pressing a hand against a point at his abdomen and another much closer to his chest. Warm, wet heat greeted the touch.
Relationships: Jack Dalton & Angus MacGyver (MacGyver TV 2016)
Series: MacGyver Febuwhump [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2137668
Comments: 14
Kudos: 48
Collections: febuwhump 2021





	Febuwhump 2021 No. 8

**Author's Note:**

> i am just out here abUSING parenthetical phrases and em dashes lmao sorry this is so stream-of-consciousness-y

Mac’s ears were rushing. It was a slow, soothing sort of sound accompanied by the gentle ringing of the temporary tinnitus that always came with the sound of gunfire in a small room. 

It was funny, Mac thought, that he’d be laying on the ground right now, two shots somewhere in his body. That wasn’t the funny part though, the funny part was that he was alone. Well, maybe it wasn’t funny-- _ironic_ , Mac’s mind sluggishly corrected. It was the one thing he was most scared of-- more than heights, more than being abandoned-- dying alone. So no, it wasn’t funny that he was bleeding out alone, it was ironic.

The comms had gone dead a while ago, Mac couldn’t remember why anymore, couldn’t remember what he was supposed to be doing. 

Not dying, that sounded like something he should be doing. Or trying not to, at least.

The team had split up for a bit on this one-- again, Mac couldn’t remember why-- but he did remember that being alone was what left him open to the man that gunned him down. Mac wondered if the others had heard the shots. Probably not.

Coughing, Mac sputtered on liquid and turned his head to the side. He wasn’t strong enough to spit it out, so he merely let it dribble uselessly out of his mouth as he wheezed out another few coughs. It tasted hot and metallic, bubbling up from the back of his throat and dripping from his parted lips. Breathing hurt.

His arm weighed a thousand pounds, but Mac slowly slid it across the ground to touch at the wet covering his mouth and chin. His fingers came back slicked with shimmery red. That wasn’t good, and Mac knew it. But it was all he could bring himself to do to let his arm drift back to the floor and blink dumbly a few times. 

Pressure. Keep pressure on the wounds, Mac’s subconscious belatedly reminded. Where were they again? In... him, but where? His body a floaty, numb thing, it was hard to pinpoint any one source of pain. Slow, unsteady hands seemed to know where to go, however, as he found himself pressing a hand against a point at his abdomen and another much closer to his chest. Warm, wet heat greeted the touch. 

There was nothing to do but lay there and bleed out. Funny-- no, ironic again-- that not only would he die alone, but he’d also be bored. He would count the number of dirty marks on the wall if things weren’t so blurry. But his hazy view swam and tilted as if it couldn’t figure out where everything belonged in his vision-- Mac didn’t think he knew where things belonged in the room either. 

There was the door just in the corner of his view that faded in and out with the tide-like motion of his peripheral: darkness creeping in and then ebbing away, tunneling in and then receding back again. If he blinked hard, Mac could make the darkness go away completely for a second or two, but that took so much energy. It was easier to rest his eyes half-lidded and let the sheen of tears keep the rest of his eye moist and only blink when the tears made the blurriness worse (though, it was becoming harder and harder to tell what was distorted by tears and what was distorted by blood loss).

He probably wasn’t putting enough pressure on the wounds, he knew that. You always had to push a lot harder than you think, and he didn’t feel as though he was pushing very hard at all. There wasn’t much he could do about it at that point.

Mac hadn’t made peace with bleeding out and dying alone. He thought he should do that pretty soon. He didn’t want to, but that was the whole point, wasn’t it? To accept the inevitable, to make it less difficult, less taxing. To be content with the things he’d accomplished and the people he’d loved, and maybe gently reminisce about the quiet moments that life had gifted him. Just a few moments to lie silently and come to terms with the fact that this was where he and his family-- the one he had found and put together in the same fashion he had come to most good things in life-- would part ways for a bit. It felt weird to be sad about that; mourning was normal, but could you mourn your own life before you’d even finished up dying yet?

Mac let his eyes slide shut.

It felt like bullshit.

He didn’t want to make peace with dying. He wanted to make _war_ with it. He snapped his eyes back open with as much force as his weak body could muster. To anyone watching on, it would have looked like a lazy drift open, but to him, it was the difference between giving up and staring at that dirty old wall instead.

Opening his eyes didn’t make a whole lot of difference. He was still bleeding out, still not putting enough pressure on the wounds, still fading. But the willpower-- the determination to open his eyes back up after every slow blink-- was important to him. 

Mac always assumed he’d go out fighting, but he had always imagined it big, explosive (with a touch of incredibly stupid), and, most importantly, with Jack right by his side. He supposed he had Jack to blame for the expectation in the first place, but Mac never thought that one day ‘going out fighting’ would mean him, alone in some room, fighting the pull of a blissful, painless sleep.

Something big and blurry was suddenly moving into Mac’s vision, and he could hear that familiar Texan drawl he would recognize anywhere. 

Mac was sure Jack wasn’t really there but found it kind of his fading subconscious to provide him at least a little bit of comfort. Mac just wished he could understand what the fuzzy figure was trying to say.

“...y there, hoss… not looking so good.” Mac could imagine creased worry lines and furrowed eyebrows as the figure crouched down next to him. “...losing a lot of blood, can you…? ...Mac, please I….” Mac wondered what he wanted, but didn’t waste too much time thinking about it.

The way Jack’s hands hovered for a moment were telling-- Jack couldn’t touch him because Jack wasn’t there. Mac gave the blood loss-induced hallucination props though, this Jack hid it well, looking as though he just didn’t know where to start, where to help. Jack was talking again and Mac smiled, glad to hear the voice as his eyes slipped shut.

“...ac, hey, this is no time to sleep, you hear me? I need you to…”

There was a new pressure on the wounds. Mac opened his eyes in surprise as he found Jack’s hands pressing over his own, covering the bleeding holes. It was _far_ too real to be a hallucination. 

“J...ack?” Mac managed to slur out past the blood in his mouth.

“... ‘m here, bud, don’t worry. You’re gonna be…” Okay? Did Jack think he was going to be okay? It was a nice thought, and Mac was willing to let Jack have it so long as he didn’t have to die alone.

“Open your eyes _right now!_ ” The panic lacing Jack's voice cut through the haze of pain and blood loss crystal clear, and Mac was compelled to obey the command. When had he closed his eyes again? Jack’s voice picked up again; it was shakier than Mac had heard it in a long time. Reassuring, comforting, almost pleading-- but the fear shone through all of that. 

Mac could feel himself drift closer and closer to unconsciousness-- but he couldn’t rest. Not yet, not without first reassuring Jack that he wasn’t going anywhere.

“Jack, Jack,” Mac mumbled, getting the older man’s attention. Mac coughed out a few times, pain shooting through him (there was a joke there somewhere in that wording, but Mac was too tired to find it) and bringing more blood up out of his mouth. 

“...hold tight… help’s comin’... doing so good, brother.”

Mac couldn’t get his eyes back open. He tried, he really did, and they fluttered, but he couldn’t get them open. Mac settled on moving his eyes to about where he thought Jack was even despite the closed lids. 

“Jack,” he said again with a painful wheeze. “Gon’ be okay, promise.” Just because he couldn’t stay awake didn’t mean he was giving up. And, confident that he had gotten his point across, Mac let himself sink into the darkness.

**Author's Note:**

> hey I’m aliiiveee, unlike Mac. IM KIDDING, he’s fine... eventually, I’m sure. Anywho, hope you’re having a lovely day/evening! :)


End file.
